


Je Ne Sais Quoi

by Chris_Quinton



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Stream of Consciousness, what's in a name?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton
Summary: Methos, in a quiet moment...
Relationships: pre- Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Kudos: 11





	Je Ne Sais Quoi

He sat in lotus on the kitchen table and contemplated words. Well, sounds, to be exact: consonants, vowels, syllables.

A name.

He was long and long past the times when names were believed to have power in themselves. In the age of instant communication around the planet--and above it--what magic could exist in a few random sounds? Yet it endured.

The sonic majesty of the Song of Songs in any of its many translations, the striding magnificence of the Mahabarata, and up through the pared perfection of haiku to the modern poets (not forgetting the sometimes gut-wrenching lyrics of the current Top Twenty), all testifying to the power of 'words'. Prayer, spell or incantation, be it bard, skald, song-smith or pop-culture lyricist, they could fashion a chimera that lodged deep in the mind and was never forgotten.

So he considered a name, thought about the hard consonants, the liquid drawl of the vowels, the two syllables and the somehow metallic reverberation of the final 'n'.

Duncan.

What did it mean--apart from the Gaelic translation? Was the name fashioned to the man, or, given the power in a single word, the man to the name?

A brown warrior, tall, strong and swift. A grim enemy. A friend loyal to the point of idiocy.

A warrior who gloried in the combat but not in the death he inflicted.

A man who judged by his own standards and in his instinctive arrogance, executed where he thought it necessary, then grieved for the perceived inevitability--and who judged himself more harshly than others.

A man of bladed edges and wounded joy.

A passionate man who embraced life and love with the laughing devotion of an innocent--which he surely was not.

A sensual man, to whom eroticism was as natural as breathing.

A man who had come to terms with the shadows within himself and had chosen not to walk their path.

A man who decided that Death should live and so sealed his own fate.

A man who knew the worth of fine wines and beers and always had them in stock for the pleasure of passing guests.

Methos blinked his eyes open and his smile grew. It was time the guest stopped passing and took up residence.

Then Presence jarred across his nerves. He reached across the table to take up the broadsword propped against the chair, and laid the weapon across his thighs. Just in case.

The door opened and the scent of fresh croissants and bagels teased his nostrils.

Duncan. A man about to be claimed.


End file.
